Romantic Rebel (8 page)

“Tomorrow, at three-thirty,” he said gently, and smiled.

The anger was for my father, then, and the stunt he had played on me. He had read my essay, and understood why I behaved with so little propriety. I felt close to Lord Paton at that moment. It was easy to forget he was a virtual stranger. When a handsome and very eligible gentleman singles out a lady of no particular significance, she does not feel him a stranger for long. She has known him for years, in her dreams.

We talked a little more about nothing in particular. Soon Mr. Pepper and Annie came to our table, and Lord Paton left. I urged Annie to go home before the ball was over, and as she has no love for late nights, she was happy to oblige me.

In the cab on the way up the hill she said, “Did you have a dance with Lord Paton, or just take tea with him?”

“He joined our set. He is coming to call tomorrow afternoon, Annie.”

“You never mean it! Did he say anything about your writing?”

“The editors would not let him give me a review. He just writes for the magazine, he has nothing to say about choosing the subjects.”

She gave me a coy look. “Then the friendship has nothing to do with your writing. That looks promising.”

“Yes, it does,” I agreed, and could hardly hold in a triumphant laugh. “It was a lovely ball, was it not?”

“Lovely. I won two shillings. I shall buy an evening purse. I saw a dandy beaded one on Milsom Street.”

You may imagine what glorious thoughts danced in my head as I lay in bed that evening, waiting for sleep to come. I had been courted, betrothed, wedded, and taken my groom home to show off to Geoffrey within half an hour. Once this climax was accomplished, my thoughts turned to more soporific ones, viz., my novel. There was a deal of revising to be done there, turning the former villain into the hero. Most of it, I decided, could be done by a simple change of hair and eye color. My hero, Lord Havard, would switch his pate from jetty black to electrum, and his blue eyes to brown; my villain the reverse.

What would be more difficult was to keep my creative thoughts sunk in gloom. The leaden skies would be turning to blue if I was not careful. I hoped it did not rain tomorrow, to cancel my outing. God could not be so cruel, even if he was a man. Just before I slept, I remembered I had not written in my journal. I would rectify the omission tomorrow.

Chapter Seven

I awoke in the morning with a sense of exhilaration whose cause was not immediately apparent. Then I opened the curtains and looked out at a beaming blue sky, and remembered my prayer for just this weather. I was driving out with Lord Paton!

The morning was given over to working on my gothic, as that allowed me to put my daydreaming to use. There was much scratching out and substituting of black hair for blond, blue eyes for brown, which curiously, gleamed with interest, glowed and gazed lovingly as the story progressed. My villain, Mr. Jeffreys, remained a trifle unresolved, but the hero took solid shape and form. When I realized I had unwittingly given my villain the name of my scurrilous cousin, he, too, fell into sharp focus.

After lunch I began my toilette for the drive. My curls, with last night’s bounce reduced to a jiggle, were pinned up behind in a basket. The contours of my face look best with only one frame, which my bonnet provided. With that sunny sky, there was no need for a pelisse over my worsted suit. To alleviate its severity, I wore a lacy fichu at the neck, with a cameo pin. The effect was somewhat akin to a governess, but not displeasing. With a memory of Lord Paton’s Angelina and my own questionable behavior regarding mourning, I wished to flaunt my respectability.

The saloon in which I greeted Lord Paton certainly held nothing in the way of refinement, unless the presence of a chaperone can be called refined.

“You must forgive this place,” I said as soon as Lord Paton entered. “It is not what you or Miss Potter and I are accustomed to, I fear.”

His dark eyes darted hither and thither, trying not to exhibit the rampant curiosity he must surely have been feeling.

“The saloon at Nesbitt Hall is so grand and spacious,” Annie mentioned. “Emma says she feels like a badger in its sett, cooped up here.”

“It will take a little getting use to, I expect,” he said blandly.

“Would you care for a glass of wine before we leave?” I inquired.

“Thank you.”

Annie darted for the sherry. We had replaced Mrs. Speers’s glasses with crystal stemmed goblets, and could serve the refreshment without blushing.

We had only one glass before leaving. “Isn’t it a lovely day!” I exclaimed joyfully when we went out into the sunlight. It was made lovelier by the sudden appearance of Mr. Bellows and Millie Pilgrim, who were just alighting from a cab. They ogled us to death.

“Fine weather for badgers.” Lord Paton smiled, and assisted me into a dashing yellow sporting curricle. “You will not feel cooped up in this rig, Miss Nesbitt.”

It was certainly an elegant vehicle, in its own way. The team, too, were a prime pair of chestnut bloods. I was vain and foolish enough to wish it was his crested carriage, till it occurred to me that we would be more highly visible in the open rig. Heads would turn on Milsom Street when we darted along at the inevitable sixteen miles an hour that all drivers of prime bloods speak of.

Lord Paton assisted me on to the seat and took his own place. “You had best move in an inch from the edge,” he suggested. “There is no danger on the straightaway, but the corners can be tricky.”

“No doubt your nags are chomping to show off their speed. Sixteen miles an hour, I assume?”

“I don’t like to boast, but they made it from Land’s End to John O’Groats in ten minutes.”

On this facetious speech he reached out, put his arm around my waist, and pulled me closer to him. That surprising action set the tone for the drive. It bordered on improper behavior, yet there was a reason—or at least an excuse for it. The walls of the seat were somewhat low.

“Ten minutes! Without bating the horses, and without losing any shoes, then, I assume?” I asked, trying to hide that I was flustered at being crushed up against his side. I shifted over till there were a few inches between us.

He watched me with a smile. “There was no need of shoes. They flew,” he said, and flicked the whip over the nags’ heads.

They were off, not quite flying, but with a lurch that gave my neck a sharp jar, and lifted my bonnet an inch. Had it not been for the ribbons, it would have left my head entirely. I had thought we would descend the downs into the town proper. It was with a definite sense of disappointment that I realized this was not his intention.

“I thought we would be driving along the river,” I said, hoping in this oblique way to alter his course. Was no one to view my glory except Millie and Bellows?

Lord Paton thought less than nothing of the river. “A cold wind blows off it in autumn, but if you care to see it, you can. The Avon curves north at the east side of town.”

So it did, and I caught a quick glimpse of it as we hurtled down the road. Once free of the city, the nags settled down to a hundred or so miles an hour. As we proceeded in a northeasterly direction away from the coast, the river, the Mendip Hills, and all other scenic wonders that the vicinity offers, the sky joined in my mood and turned from blue to gray. Clouds were blown in on a brisk wind that cut through my serge suit like a knife through soft butter.

The glory of driving out with Lord Paton was seen by the driver of a cartful of turnips, a farmer with his wife and five children all squeezed into a donkey-driven gig, a mole catcher, and a pair of young boys playing truant from school. The occupants of the one respectable carriage we passed could not possibly have seen us for the cloud of dust they blew up into our faces. I removed my cramped fingers from the carriage edge long enough to draw out my handkerchief and bat at the dust.

“Perhaps we should turn back. It is getting quite cloudy,” I pointed out.

“We’re almost there.”

“I don’t believe you mentioned our destination.”

“The whole area is pretty,” he said vaguely. “Bowood Park is nearby, a handsome estate designed by the Adams brothers. It belongs to a friend of mine, Lord Lansdowne. Sloperton Cottage, where Thomas More spent his last days, is only a few miles away. Coleridge, the poet, is at Calne, also nearby—or was the last I heard. This is a fascinating area, with many interesting spots to visit. Badminton, too, is only a little north.”

My mind reeled with all these intriguing possibilities. Was he going to call on his friend, Lord Lansdowne? What a story to take home to Lampards Street. Coleridge, a pre-eminent poet, was even better.

“Do you know Coleridge?” I asked hopefully.

“Oh, certainly. I have met him any number of times. A long-winded bore, and Wordsworth is worse. They are both better met in their poetry. Strange, is it not, how writers differ so markedly from their works? One would never have thought, to read ‘A Daughter’s Dilemma,’ that you would be a charming young lady. Had I read your essay before meeting you, I would have expected a harpy.”

This flattery, while welcome, added nothing to my physical comfort. We had been driving for the better part of an hour. The next milestone said Corsham, one mile. “We had best turn back,” I suggested. I could no longer conceal the bouts of shivering that assailed me.

“We shall stop first and have tea. The wind is rising. Corsham is the closest village to—” He came to an abrupt stop, but soon continued. “Did I mention Lord Methuen lives at Corsham? A handsome old Elizabethan heap.”

“No, you didn’t.” But he had mentioned Lord Lansdowne and Coleridge, and as no visit to these luminaries had transpired, I had no real hopes of taking tea with Lord Methuen—nor did we.

“Our destination is only a stone’s throw from Corsham,” he assured me.

I consoled myself that he
did
have a real destination in mind, and kept an eye peeled for either a noble heap of stones or a public inn. I observed a certain anticipatory gleam in Lord Paton’s eye, and was taken with the idea that it was his own estate we were heading to. He was familiar with all the local landmarks, he was living in Bath, the closest city of any size.

“Where is your country seat, sir?” I inquired.

“Kent.”

This killed the possibility that I was being rushed home to meet the family. It was one of his lesser abodes we were to visit then.

“How does it come that you live in Bath?”

“My father is still alive. He lives at Paton Hall. I spend most of my time in London.”

“London! I thought you live in Bath.”

He looked totally astonished. “Good
God,
no. Nobody lives in Bath. I am here only on family business. My mother’s sister has some property in town she wishes to develop. I am staying with her a month to give her a hand. She is getting on, you know. I will be the eventual inheritor, and she asked my advice on the matter. We have decided to build a block of flats, as the demand is certainly there, and it will be more profitable than building three or four single dwellings.”

“When—when will you be leaving?” I asked.

He turned his dark gaze on me. “I am in no hurry—now.”

I thought, all the same, that he was in something of a hurry. There was an air of haste in this courting. We had proceeded another half mile, which is farther than any mere mortal can throw a stone. Surely our destination must be close, but the only building on the horizon was a little thatched cottage standing under the protection of a spreading mulberry tree. A welcoming puff of smoke came from its chimney. I was quite simply astonished when he pulled the reins and turned in at the lane to this modest dwelling.

“Do you know someone here?” I asked. His old nanny, I thought, and immediately endowed the woman with a history. She had raised Lord Paton from the egg, was dearer to him than his own mama, and he wished to present me to her. I felt a wave of emotion wash over me. Paton had not struck me as a sentimental man.

“I own the place,” he said. “It was left to me by another aunt, who had bought it for the use of her retired companion. When the companion died, it was left idle. Let us go in and have a look around. Cozy, is it not?”

The puff of smoke from the chimney told me it was not vacant. The windows sparkled, and the rose-bushes had not returned to the wild. Someone was living here, some old family retainer probably.

Lord Paton hopped down, secured the carriage, and came to assist me. I am neither old nor infirm. A hand would have been sufficient to see me safely to the ground, but it was two arms that lifted me down, making a fine flourishing circle with my body in the air before my feet reached terra firma. The unexpected trick threw me off balance, and I clutched at his shoulders for dear life, ready to deliver a sharp rebuke. But when I looked down at his jaunting, laughing face, my frown changed to a smile.

His hands remained at my waist after I released my grip on him. Then he removed one hand and put a finger under my chin, tilting my head up. “You don’t look like a misogynist, Miss Nesbitt. Why do you write such cruel things about men? I cannot believe any man has had the heart to abuse such a lovely lady.” His voice was burred with emotion as he gazed at me.

I lost track of time in the concentration of that speaking gaze. We just looked at each other for a long moment, then I took his arm and said calmly, “Let us go inside, Lord Paton. I’m freezing.”

He was all solicitude, cursing himself as an insensitive monster. “We’ll have a nice cup of tea—no, coffee is more fortifying. We’ll pull our chairs close to the grate and make toast on the embers, as we used to do in the nursery. And don’t you think we could dispense with the ‘Lord,’ Miss Nesbitt?”

Paton (you will notice I was not tardy to follow his advice) entered without knocking. A country housekeeper covered from neck to slippers in a white apron came trotting up. I waited to see who else came to greet us.

“Coffee, Mrs. Maherne, if you please. And see that the fire is built up.”

“It’s roaring away. Everything is in order, just as you asked,” she replied, and went off to make the coffee.